Bridget Jones' Baby
by mrsmish
Summary: The characters herein are the property of the brilliant Helen Fielding and no copyright infringement is intended!Bridget is pregnant, and we all know who WE want to be the daddy!


Somebody's Baby is on the Way

Oh dear, this is getting all too confusing.

I went from nobody wanting to marry me to everyone wanting to marry me.

It is a highly complicated situation you see. Let me see if I can explain it to you.

I am pregnant with a baby that was fathered by Daniel Cleaver (I think), but Mark Darcy has offered to marry me and adopt the baby that is not his (at least I don't think it is) and gay pal Tom has told me to sod off the two of them as neither of them is reliable enough to be a father anyway. So in manner of Will and Grace he suggested that HE marry me so that the baby will have a name, and the name of a formerly famous rock star to boot in manner of Mick Jagger and children of varying ages too numerous to count. On all continents except Antarctica.

I am suddenly envious of hippie-like commune women who gave birth in poppy field and returned to community where everyone raised the baby together and no one gave a rat's arse who the biological father was.

The problem is, you see, that said baby is on the way. Probably today, as I sit here writing in pain - that's writing, not writhing, that was not a typo. Hmm...not typing...so it can't be a typo. Is there such a word as "write-o?" Right-o! That was a pun. (Pain, BTW, is not in moving fingers but in region of body that indicates imminent arrival of baby). Every 15 minutes. Time out...oooh, bad one.

I wish it were Mark Darcy's baby. There, I said it. If only it were Mark's, I would happily marry him and forget Daniel, but one can hardly marry one other than the father of one's baby and forget about the father who will show up inconveniently on holidays to take the baby to a third set of grandparents, as though two sets weren't enough. As though just _my_ parents were not enough!

However, and I know this is selfish of me, it is Mark Darcy I will be calling momentarily to take me to hospital. I know, I know, Daniel has been the official father, but it is Mark I want holding my hand and yelling "Focus, breathe, focus, breathe." Mark, you see, can be very commanding and sexy...GAH...who thinks about sex in any way shape or form whilst in labor, except to wish they never had any?

Oh, dear. Another one. Only 10 minutes since the last one. Note to self: call Mark Darcy after next contraction.

Back to multiple father problems. Daniel Cleaver will not be pleased that Mark Darcy is coaching his baby (football connotations there) and helping me kick it through the goalposts. So to speak. Daniel, after all, is the one who came to a Lamaze class and left halfway through because he remembered he shagged the instructor. Or worse, whatever that means. Mark Darcy told me that in typical methodical Mark Darcy fashion he read a book and watched a bloody DVD (literally bloody, well not the actual disc, but the scenes in it, you know what I mean) to get birthing tips. He does make very good omelettes even though he rarely cooks but watches many cooking shows on the telly, so I think it would carry through...

AAAAAAAH. 7 minutes. Not VG. Time to call Mark...and get his blasted machine!

"This is Mark Darcy. Please leave your message after the tone."

"Mark, your baby's coming! Get to the hospital. Oh, this is Bridget."

(Last line said just in case there is another woman who is having his baby who is really his baby or not. One never knows.)

If there are two fathers in this story there may be two mothers for all I know.

Surely must get to hospital ASAP as I am babbling and have been told babbling is sure sign of transition (labor-type transition, which means V bad pain caused by baby's head pressing on cervix in excruciating manner.)

Can one babble on paper?

Off to hospital. Ironically, all alone. No fathers, biological or otherwise, to be found.

Chapter 2

Almost a week since I've written, but I believe I can be excused due to having baby and spending any and all spare moments when not nursing baby to sleep.

Well, diary, I am a mother. When last I wrote I was leaving for hospital...all alone...but I was far from alone when I got there.

Mark Darcy got my message and called my mum and dad, and just as they were getting ready to leave for hospital, Daniel Cleaver called, and dear old mum told him where we all were. Oh joy. Last thing I needed was Mark and Daniel engaging in testosterone-fueled fisticuffs in hospital waiting room. The admitting nurse came out and said, "Who's the daddy?" and they answered simultaneously, "I am!" All three of them, actually, my dad thinking she was referring to MY daddy!

The nurse folded her arms across her chest and glared.

"Well, only one of you is permitted in labor and delivery, gentlemen. Shall we toss a coin?"

You will be proud to hear that despite being in the midst of contraction from hell, I said with quiet dignity, "I am sorry, Daniel, but I want Mark Darcy with me in the labor room." Well, maybe not such quiet dignity, as this statement was immediately followed by "FUCK it HURTS!" and I started to puff like mad, vaguely remembering I was told to do so by Lamaze instructor before Daniel remembered he had shagged her. This was perhaps exactly the right thing to say as Daniel immediately backed away from wild-eyed puffing pregnant woman in manner of vampire confronted with crucifix, and Mark Darcy immediately drew closer to put his arm firmly around my shoulder to support me.

"Be calm, Bridget. Deep breaths. No puffing yet. That's a good girl," he said, totally ignoring everyone else.

"You make a lovely midwife, Darcy," Daniel said.

Mark just looked at him like...well, like Mr. Darcy looked at George Wickham who had not impregnated Elizabeth Bennet but did try to screw around with Darcy's teenage sister, which was even worse.

"What the fuck gives you the right, Darcy?" Daniel demanded.

"Bridget and I are engaged," Mark Darcy announced. I would have enjoyed this romantic revelation much more thoroughly had I not felt another contraction coming just three...or was it two...minutes since the last one. I had been diligently watching the second hand circling the face of the clock on the wall but looked away to gaze into Mark's eyes when he first put his arm around me.

"Oh, how lovely, they're engaged!" Mum announced to the random assortment of people in the admissions office.

"Better late than never," muttered one little old lady, shaking her head at us.

"Oh, no, it's not his," I assured her. "It's alright...FUCK, I have to lie down!"

Mark helped me into the wheelchair and we proceeded with some alacrity into the labor room, as at that moment, my water broke, Mark almost slipping in the puddle, grabbing onto the wheelchair at the last moment to stop himself.

Laughing at fiance in the middle of a contraction is a very good, even if very temporary, method of taking one's mind off the pain. Must remember to inform Lamaze instructor when I get home.

Will always remember how wonderful Mark Darcy was during labor and delivery. Did not leave my side for one moment, even when I told him to get the fuck out of the room. Was immensely cheered when doctor informed Mark that laboring woman telling husband to get the fuck out of the room was sure sign that the worst of it was almost over.

"I'm her fiance," Mark corrected him. He took my hands in his and looked at me anxiously. "Aren't I, Bridget?"

How could I have ever forgotten, even for one damn evening, how wonderful and lovely Mark Darcy was? And why oh why did Daniel Cleaver have to show up on that one damn evening and find his way into my bed?

"Well, you told my mum you are, Mark. So I suppose you are."

"Marry me, Bridget. I'll be the stepfather if I have to be. We'll just skip over the part where you marry Daniel and divorce him. Much more efficient."

"Oh God Mark, I need to push."

I think for a moment he forgot where we were and what I was talking about. He looked rather puzzled as to what pushing had to do with a proposal of marriage.

"Oh, Bridget...wait until the doctor says it's OK...Doctor!"

Lovely Mark Darcy stood behind me, his arms holding me up so I could brace myself against him to push our baby out. Very surreal experience, I must tell you, all these strangers staring between my legs and cheering me on. We were all members of the get-the-baby-out team and it was time to go for the gold!

Amazing how the pain seemed to stop when I could push against it.

"We can see the head now, Bridget," one of the nurses said. "GIve us another good push, love."

I could feel Mark's lips brushing my hair as I bore down.

And just like on television, except the doctor looked nothing like dishy George Clooney, I heard the baby's first cry. Sounded more like a cat than a baby, actually. I was relieved and exhausted and Mark Darcy was crying louder than the baby was.

"Oh God, Bridget...Bridget..." was all he could say, putting his arms around me and his head on my chest.

I was surprised at this very un-Mark Darcylike emotional outburst, and stroked his curls.

"Mark, you might want to get your head off my tits. The baby will be needing those."

He lifted his head. There were tears streaming down his face.

"I love you, Mark Darcy." And I whispered, "When the baby is finished, you're next in line!"

"You have a beautiful baby girl, Bridget!" Dr. Not George Clooney announced.

They put little baby Jones...because we had not as yet selected a name...on my chest, as Mark Darcy and I looked at her, and at each other, adoringly. She had dark curly hair, and eyes like midnight.

"Bridget..." Mark said wonderingly.

"Yes?" I answered, as I guided my nipple into the baby's mouth.

"She's mine," he said. And he started to cry all over again.

"Of course she's yours," I said. "You were here when she came into the world, and you will be the daddy she lives with and..."

"NO!" he said. "I mean she's mine, really mine. Look at her eyes, Bridget. They're going to be brown."

"So?" I said. "I know people with brown eyes who have babies with blue."

"But I bet you don't know two blue-eyed parents who have a brown-eyed baby! Mendel, Bridget! Mendel!"

"Mendel? What do Nazis have to do with the colour of the baby's eyes, Mark?"

"Not Mengele, Bridget, Mendel! Gregor Mendel! Genetics! Dominant genes!"

"Dominant genes? This is not the time to get kinky on me, Mark Darcy, although I do admit I have some fantasies in that area I may like to explore..."

"Bridget, would you please listen to me! Brown eyes are dominant, blue are recessive. What it means is that two blue-eyed parents cannot produce a brown-eyed child, and as the baby...MY daughter...has brown eyes...and you and Cleaver have blue eyes..."

Now it was my turn to cry.

"Are you making this up to make me feel better?" As though anything could make me feel better about having slept with Daniel Cleaver, anyway.

Mark laughed and cried at the same time, as he kissed me.

"No my sweet Bridget, I am not making it up. Grace is my daughter!"

"Grace?"

"I thought it was appropriate to name her in honour of Father Mendel. Gregor Mendel was a Catholic monk, and since we can't very well name her Gregor..."

As naming the baby after a monk was preferable to naming her after a Nazi, I agreed.

Grace Elizabeth Pamela Darcy, oblivious to all the excitement surrounding her birth and parentage, fell asleep in her daddy's arms.

"They want me to take her to the nursery now, Bridget, so your parents can see her. Who's going to break the news to Cleaver?"

"You're the daddy, Mark, so you figure it out! And Mark...I think you were her daddy even before you were her daddy. Do you know what I mean?"

"Strangely enough, Bridget, I believe I do. And Bridget? There will be a wedding before there is a christening!"

"Yes, Mr. Darcy," I said sweetly, feeling all soft and submissively giddy when faced with this new Mark Darcy, the Papa Bear to my Mama Bear and our little Baby Bear. He left to show off his daughter to her grandparents, and I marveled at our good fortune.

I do not know which goddess was smiling down on me that day, but I felt truly and fortunately blessed by the turn of events that made my darling Mark so happy that day. He had supported me when he thought he would be helping to bring another man's baby into the world, and he would have loved that baby with all his heart, as he loved me. If anyone deserved this happy and unexpected outcome, it was he.

And now I was getting weepy and sentimental, and he wasn't there to see it. I was tired, and sore, and my hair was a matted mess, and I didn't care. I felt like the luckiest and most beautiful woman in the world.

Everyone talks about post-partum depression, but what I had that day was post-partum elation!


End file.
